Warmth
by Aemilia Rose
Summary: All he wanted, and probably she as well, was a way to blot out the suffering. What did it matter how he accomplished that? RoyRiza. Animeverse. OneShot.


**A/N: **Hello everyone! Yes, I am back sooner than expected with another FMA fic. This little oneshot just begged to be written, it really did. For those of you who are waiting for my Al-centric fic... it's well underway!

I'd like to extend a thank you to all of the people who reviewed my other story, _Lessons in Pride and Care_, and to my amazing, spectacular beta CaptainKase. She is a goddess. If you haven't read her wonderful oneshot series, _Shattered_, you are a poor deprived soul. Go read it now. Review. Give her love.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own FMA.

**Summary:** That's what he told himself – all he wanted (and probably she as well) was a way to blot out the suffering. What did it matter how he accomplished that? Roy/Riza. Animeverse. OneShot.

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**Warmth**

Burning, always burning.

He scrambled away from his tent, clutching his head in a desperate attempt to crush the images right out of his skull. Flaring imprints from bright blazing lights were branded on the inside of his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes they burned, spiking through his brain like a thousand needles. It hurt, oh God_ it hurt_. His stumbling feet caught, and he pitched forwards into a rough cushion of sand. And that goddamn sand… the sand was _everywhere_. In his hair, in his uniform, in his boots, in his mouth, in his nose. The sand was still warm, heated from the blistering sun that had only recently hid its unforgiving face. The sand burned. His fingers dug through the hot, grainy particles as he pushed himself back to his feet and began to run.

Technically, he wasn't allowed to leave the camp without orders. But the rules and regulations had no effect out here – not when the enemy was almost eradicated anyway. The camp he was assigned to was tiny and isolated in the middle of the desert. Half of the original occupants had died in battle sometime ago, half of the remaining portion were wounded, and _all_ of the survivors suffered by some definition of the word.

Back in training, there had been so much _emphasis_ put on following orders. Soldiers were expected to be clean cut, efficient killing machines. But once you got out onto the battlefield, the killing part was all that mattered. Nobody cared if a soldier didn't fold his uniform correctly before he went to bed in his lopsided military-issued tent. Nobody cared if a he smoked or drank himself into oblivion after a particularly rough day. Nobody cared if he left the camp in the middle of the night to seek refuge from the haunting thoughts that blistered through his mind.

He darted for a small, rocky ridge peaking up out of the sand. By rounding the corner of that ridge, he would be able to put the rocks between himself and the camp, and that was precisely what he wanted. Once the camp was out of sight, he leaned up against the rock face, closing his eyes wearily and ignoring the brilliant flashes behind his retinas.

He sank down into a sitting position, knees pulled up to support his head. Even though he had stopped running, his body continued to shake as if he were caught up in an adrenaline rush he couldn't control. Hot tears gathered in his dark lashes. Cracking open his eyes, he peered out into the dark desert. It was all barren - empty. Ignoring the faint sounds from camp, he could almost pretend the entire area was deserted.

He was alone.

A startled gasp echoed through the rocks, and it took him a moment to realize that it hadn't come from him. He _wasn't_ alone.

He glanced up, searching silently for the source of the noise only to find a young female soldier curled up farther down the ridge. Her eyes were wide and shocked. Obviously, she had been expecting solitude as well. She had blonde hair, cropped short, and a pale, comely face. Her uniform lacked insignia, marking her as nothing more than a private. When he thought about it, he remembered seeing her before in the ranks of the regular soldiers sent to accompany the State Alchemists.

Seeing his eyes on her (and the bars and stripes on his uniform), she tensed and seemed ready to dart away. "I'm sorry, sir," she stammered, "I didn't mean to – "

"No," he waved a dismissive hand at her. "You were here first. I won't disturb you."

She sat back against the rocks, but didn't relax at all. The two remained there for a long time, separated by several feet, both lost in their own thoughts.

He stared down at his bare hands; he had left his gloves back at the tent. Unlike most of the soldiers here, his hands were not burnt, calloused, or stained by gunpowder. They were clean and untouched, devoid of the dirt, sand, and grime that should have collected under his nails, and with fingers that were long and elegant like a scholar's instead of a killer's. But they _were_ a killer's hands.

Despite the fact that he'd never felt the blood on his hands, he was still a murderer. He'd always stood far away – aloof, even – like a pillar of doom looking down on the sprawl of civilization from his perch atop a mighty cliff, prophesizing the world's demise. He'd kept his distance, but he wasn't too far away to hear the screams, to smell the bittersweet odor of charred flesh, to see bodies incinerated and ripped apart into a rain of grisly chunks.

Nausea gripped his stomach like a vice at the memories. He pressed his trembling fists into his bloodshot eyes, while tucking his knees closer in to his chest like a child hiding from hideous nightmares. They wouldn't go away. _Wouldn't go away!_

He didn't realize that he had whimpered until he felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder. _Who?_ He jerked upwards. _I'm under attack!_ But no… the battle was over.

He looked up into the concerned face of the young private.

"Sir?" She asked, not removing her hand. "Are you alright?"

_No. None of us are alright. You aren't either, or you wouldn't be out here with me_. "Yes… I'm fine."

She sat down beside him, close enough that her side pressed ever so slightly against his as if the touch gave her comfort. He certainly didn't complain. He welcomed her company. When she looked at him again, he noticed that her eyes were the color of spice. Fresh tear tracks stained her cheeks, streaming from eyes underlined by the dark shadows of sleepless nights. He didn't think he looked much better in that department.

Minutes later, he realized that her hand was still on his shoulder. He tentatively reached up and placed his hand on hers. It was warm - not hot or burning like the sand, but warm and soft. He could feel her pulse thrumming under his fingertips. Suddenly, he wondered when he last touched a human being… when he last _looked_ at a human that wasn't killing, giving him orders to kill, or waiting to be killed.

Finding that he was unable to break off the contact, he grasped her hand gently. He rubbed his thumb over her smooth skin. The feel of it… it was _intoxicating,_ and he drank in the sensation. A body - not dead, not dying - _alive_. Alive and full of warmth.

He wasn't sure who made the first move. It wouldn't surprise him if he had. After all, that was very much like him. Always taking things for himself, with no regard for others.

He pressed himself up against her, reveling in the silken warmth of her body. Hands slid beneath the coarse fabric of the uniform, peeling back the layers and exposing more of that blessed living skin. Moans of desire, of _need_, forced their way out of his throat as he reached for her. She didn't protest. He didn't think he would have been able to stop if she had.

Accusatory doubts fluttered through his mind. _What are you doing! You don't even know this woman. What if she is a virgin? You have no right to take her this way_. But then she began to yield to him, as if begging him to continue. That's what he told himself – all he wanted (and probably she as well) was a way to blot out the suffering. What did it matter how he accomplished that?

Regulations had no place on the battlefront. Morals had no place on the battlefront. Virtues had no place on the battlefront. All that mattered was keeping oneself sane and alive.

As the heat of passion stole over him, the sharpest aches of his torturous nightmares melted away. It felt soothing, healing – connecting with another human in a way that was entirely opposite of the brutalities of war, in a way that did not revolve around death. This was _life!_ He ran his hands along the alluring curves of her body. _Life!_ He drowned himself in the pleasure of the moment.

_Life!_

Afterwards, they didn't talk. In a strange sort of daze, both of them gathered up their belongings and headed back to their tents as if nothing had happened.

That night, he slept well for the first time in a long time. It would be a long time before he slept well again.

The next morning, rumors went through the camp that the war was over. Only days later, the soldiers were sent home, battalion by battalion, regiment by regiment, as heroes of the State. On the day that he was released, he searched around the camp, trying to catch a glimpse of the young, female private who had saved him. Whether he wanted to thank her or apologize, he couldn't decide. It didn't matter. He never found her.

It was only later, after he'd been promoted Lieutenant Colonel and given an office in Central, that he met her again.

By then, he was absorbed in his goal to climb up the ranks, a spark of ambition burning through his veins like a rampant wildfire. Growing his circle of influence was his first order of business. His requests for an additional subordinate officer went through smoothly, and soon an experienced, young Second Lieutenant came knocking at his office door.

The shock on her face was almost comical, and he had no doubt that a similar gaping expression was mirrored on his side. He stood frozen at the doorway, seeing this beautiful, blonde image of the past staring right back at him, her cinnamon eyes seeming to accuse, "_I know you! I remember your touch – I saw you when you were at your lowest. I saw you weak, helpless, unable to do more that weep and claw at the ground in despair… you used me! You used me to succor your own sufferings. You're pathetic!"_

But then, he noticed something else in her eyes. Pain? Longing?

Before he could place exactly what it was, a cold mask obscured her face. She saluted brusquely, words coming cold and flat from her unsmiling mouth. "Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye reporting, sir."

It was then that he realized that he'd never known her name.

He saluted back, returning the cool, crisp military greeting. "Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. At ease, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

And with the exchanging of names, they began their time together at Central Headquarters.

If it weren't for the stiff, awkward stance they took whenever circumstances forced them to spend more time with each other than normally dictated by military regulations, it would seem as if their liaison during the war never occurred. Each never spoke more than necessary to the other. Those long mornings in the office were spent in silence even as they worked side by side.

At certain moments, he would turn his head to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. She was a tireless worker; cold discipline had branded its mark on her He admired the way her bangs shaded those warm-colored eyes, the way her lips pursed when she was deep in thought, the way her neck arched smoothly inwards, the way her skin flushed when the office weathered the heat of summer. And even as he willed her uniform to hug tighter to those shapely hips, he was disgusted with himself.

It wasn't fair.

All she had ever been to him in the past was a means to satisfy the lusting, carnal desires of a war-stricken man. How could have ever done something like that? Taking a woman to quell his own thirst for distraction. _Her_ side of the story never mattered. It never had occurred to him before what _she_ might have thought of it all. Did she ever comprehend how crudely he'd used her and thrown her away afterwards? Did she hate him for it? Part of him thought she had every right to despise him, and wondered why she had not yet requested to be transferred out from his command. Another part of him wickedly supposed that she had enjoyed and hungered for that night just as much as he had.

Once, when she was handing him an important document, her fingers inadvertently brushed against his ungloved hands. There had been a time when he had never let her come near enough to touch him, afraid that any intimate gesture would spark the old desires. But now, as he felt her soft skin against his, he realized something. The warmth that spread through him now was not the blaze of bodily pleasure. This warmth was something else. Admiration. Care. Respect. And maybe…

He found himself more confused than ever.


End file.
